And a Bottle of Rum
by Aebhel
Summary: A total ripoff of Geekmama's 'Drabbles of the Caribbean'. Various vignettes about life before, during, and after the movies. Spoilers, probably.
1. What is that?

"What--" Jack drew back, brow wrinkled dramatically "--is _that?_"

Elizabeth shifted warm weight of her son to her other shoulder. "I should think that even you would know a baby when you saw one."

"Huh." He leaned forward again, nose-to-nose with Little Will who, Elizabeth was amused to observe, did not seem the least bit frightened by the tanned, whiskered, and (probably) none too savory-smelling visage of the pirate captain. He wrapped a chubby hand around one of Jack's braids and giggled.

Jack grimaced and disentangled himself, then stepped back a few paces for good measure. "He has your manners."


	2. Rage

It was a sweltering day in August when she could no longer deny that she was pregnant. She didn't tell anyone where she was going, and Jack was the one who found her standing knee-deep in the shallows of a deserted inlet, hurling rocks as far as she could toward the horizon and screaming herself hoarse.

She didn't know how long he sat on the shore watching her--it was unlike him to stay quiet for so long--but when she waded back to shore, he was sitting with his bare toes curled in the sand. She sank down beside him, shoulders slumped, and did not speak.


	3. The Passing of the Pirate King

She stands by the small dinghy, straight-backed and proud, a stunning woman despite the silver in her hair and the deep lines carved around her eyes and mouth. Her back is to the ocean, and it is impossible to discern her thoughts as she surveys the crowd before her.

The mood is solemn, her unruly subjects unusually quiet. Rosalind Gibbs is crying, tears streaming silently down her weathered cheeks.

"Mother--" That is Little Will. He is near fifty now, a big-bellied bear of a man. "Mother, you don't have to do this."

She takes his face in her hands, gently. Her face is flushed with fever, but her eyes are calm. "I will die at sea," she says. "That is the only way."

She kisses his cheeks, rests her hand briefly on her granddaughter's tousled head, and climbs into the little boat. Two young men lend their shoulders to push her free of the sand and she strikes out with long, practiced strokes toward the horizon.

She does not look back.


	4. Afloat

The sky is an achingly clear blue and the edges of the horizon are drifting out of sight when he finally appears. Alone; his ship is a dark smudge against the edge of the sky, nothing more.

He drapes his arms over the sides of the dinghy, laughing. "I'm not entirely sure this is within the rules."

She smiles crookedly at him. "I'm not entirely sure I care in the least." She reaches out to touch his naked shoulders, warm skin thrumming under her fingers. Two years. It has been two years, and their son has learned to talk and there is so much to tell him and...

Her fingers dig into his skin and then she is hauling him, soaking wet and bare, into the little boat. He smells of smoke and salt.

"Pirate," he whispers against her mouth, falling into her.


	5. Father and Son

"Let me come with you, Da. Just this once!"

Bill rested a hand on his son's curly head. "You're a mite short for a sailor, my lad."

"I'll grow. Please, Da--I'll be ever so good."

"I know you will." He knelt so that his eyes were level with Will's. The boy stuck his chin out stubbornly, and Bill cupped his cheek in one hand, the skin soft under his calloused fingers. "I'll need you to look after your mum for me. Take good care of her, will you?"

He looked up into his wife's resigned face as Will muttered a sullen assent. Somehow, she managed to find a smile for him. "He always does," she whispered. "He's my good lad."

"I know he is."

***

Bill blinked, and the memory faded. His son--

They tore away Will's shirt, and he ducked his head, powerful muscles flexing and straining uselessly in the downpour.

_He does look like me_, Bill thought. His features were darker and sharper, like Mary's had been, but the shape of them was his own. The nose had been badly broken once and there were old scars there, laced across the smooth skin.

_Oh, my boy, what has the world done to you?_


End file.
